


Rain On Mars

by celestialskiff



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Ableism, Annika Hansen - Freeform, Canon Disabled Character, F/F, Femslash, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7769128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mars isn't known as a romantic place, but with the right weather and a little music, anywhere can be beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain On Mars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/gifts).



> Huge thanks to **SweetPollyOliver** for their wonderful beta-ing skills, and all their help and suggestions for the singing section. Couldn't have done it without them.

Annika Hansen dreamed of rain. Outside windows, slanting into pools, sending up spray. She dreamed of city roofs, thrown into dim relief against a wet sky. She dreamed of lightning, of thunder, of a summer storm. Of torrents falling through gutters onto the streets below. Of flowers beaten wide by rain. 

Seven of Nine didn't think she dreamt at all. She regenerated and woke at the usual time. She ate a small portion of overnight oats in the kitchen that had once been her grandmother's. Her cousins slept, still. She woke during their night for her shift in Starfleet, San Francisco. But even sleeping, their presence was welcome. The even breathing of the children; her cousin's slow snores, his husband's regular breaths. They were a small collective, but a welcome one. 

There was snow on the ground here in Uppsala. Snow: impractical, treacherous underfoot. Yet some part of her wanted to run on it, to see if she could slide, to roll down the banks in the local park, like the children did. It was a short walk to the transport station and she stayed on the pebbled paths. The guard on duty was half asleep, blinking awake to murmur a greeting to _Ms. Hansen_. 

The name was always strange. Her cousins called her Annika, with warmth, and welcomed her, but sometimes she longed for Tuvok's voice, or Janeway's, to say her real designation. It did not make sense: Annika was a more suitable name now. But still, sometimes she wanted to wake up and hear someone say _Seven_. 

It was raining in San Francisco. It reminded her of something she could not name. The rain fell steadily, grey, slanting against an equally grey sky. “All ready for the conference?” Ensign Eela, a small Trill woman who shared her research duties, asked her. 

“Yes,” Seven said. It was the first time she'd spoken today, and the words felt strange in her mouth. “I am prepared.” 

“Aren't you taking any luggage? It'll be two or three days on Mars.” 

“I can replicate anything I require,” Seven replied. 

Ensign Eela wrinkled her nose. “I'd rather have my own things around me. But you're right, it's certainly lighter, and you can recycle them in the replicator later.” 

 

*

Sarina Douglas dreamed it was raining. Her favourite holodeck programme: an autumn rain, drops landing on a wide, black river; splashing into pools; causing leaves to fall from their trees into the meadows below. The sharp scent of jumja plants finally ready for harvest. The faint green tracing the sky. She asked for it at any holosuite she visited, and most places kept it. _Bajoran Autumn Rain_ , for relaxation and meditation. 

Now it flowed into her dreams: the black stream with its golden crabs, the pale arachnids crawling from the deep soil, the sound of it, faint and insistent. 

“Could've picked anywhere in the universe, and they said Mars.” 

Oh. She'd been dreaming when she was awake. A man was speaking to her, and she was awake, so she had to answer. 

“Mars,” she repeated, and then remembered that wasn't the right reply “Well, I've never been before.” 

“I have.” The man twisted his mouth in a way that demonstrated disgust or disappointment. “Topher Tearsdale, I work for a Vulcan-Human planetary research body.”

“Oh,” said Sarina. “What do you study?” 

“We're a small group, you wouldn't have heard of us. Can I buy you a drink?” 

A drink. Drink: long ago, on Deep Space Nine. Complex flavour, bitter, mixture of unsweetened cocoa, cream, long thin leaves ( _cyathaelas_ , tree-fern): raktajino. “No.” 

“Have you ever had a gin-and-tonic? Old Terran drink, but you can't argue with the classics. Goes down nice and easy. I'll get you one.” 

The words _Juniperus communis_ came into her head and for a moment she couldn't remember why. Then: gin, made from junipers. He was waving at the bar-tender, taking her silence for acquiescence. She shouldn't have gone to the bar. Good things didn't happen at bars, but she liked the noise. She did not have to be with anyone, and she did not have to be alone: it reminded her of being with Jack and Patrick and Lauren. Being home, and not at all at home. 

“Here.” The drink sparkled. She could smell it: fresh. The man put his hand on her arm. Warm fingers, middle-fifties, facial hair. He was lying to her about something. The company he worked for: perhaps the company didn't exist? But why was he lying? She wanted to lie down and listen to music. Debussy, _Gardens in the Rain._

“Let me tell you about Mars,” the man said, his face too close to her own. 

* 

“Seven! I saw your name on the list of speakers.” 

“It is pleasant to see you, Tom,” Seven replied. She had not expected him to be waiting for her outside the shuttle dock. He had grown stouter since they left Voyager, and he had the beginnings of a beard. He was no longer a serving officer in Star Fleet. 

“I'm here to test drive a few new ships. Built for speed, not combat. Make the Delta flyer look like a Ferrari.” 

“Ferrari,” Seven repeated. “An Italian sports car. First built in the 1940s.” 

Tom grinned, wide and long. “Let me walk you to the convention centre,” he said. 

“The Ferrari were built for speed, but have become obsolete,” Seven observed, allowing him to lead the way, although she had already looked it up before she left San Francisco, and was perfectly capable of getting there by herself. 

“Like the Delta Flyer,” Tom said. “Though it kills me to admit it.” 

She had not lied for the sake of politeness, though she knew how to do that now: it was pleasant to see Tom Paris. He was familiar; he had long been part of her collective; she knew his voice and his movements. She had nearly died with him on Voyager. He had his own irritating habits, but it would always be pleasant to see him. 

They went to the bar within the main conference centre. The opening address was tonight, in a few hours; she would give her paper tomorrow. The bar was not crowded, but a few knots and groups of people sat at small tables or leant against the blue-glass counter. Seven still found being around people she could not name or designate rather jarring, but she was getting more used to being jarred. She calmed herself by counting them all and observing the nearest exits. 

Seven saw no purpose in holding a drink to be social, when she was not thirsty. However, she allowed Tom to obtain coffee for her. The smell reminded her pleasantly of the kitchen in Uppsala, and of Janeway. Tom spoke at length about ship production on Mars, about the beauty of the Martain planes with their long slow rivers and the colonies of animals that had been established on the terraformed planet, and finally about B'Elanna and Miral. 

Seven told him an anecdote about Achim, her cousin's youngest son, and Tom laughed appreciatively. As she spoke she noticed a small, human women at the end of the bar. A man was leaning towards her, and the woman was shrinking back. She did not look obviously frightened, but her pupils were wide, and her fingers flexed uneasily. Every time she leant away, the man leant closer. 

“The woman is uncomfortable,” Seven told Tom, gesturing towards her. “She does not enjoy the man's company.” 

The man put his hand on the woman's shoulder and squeezed. Her cheeks flushed red, and she looked around, as though seeking an exit and finding none. 

“No, she doesn't,” Tom agreed. He stood up, putting his drink down. Seven was glad he was taking action; she had been about to, but now she knew she wasn't breaking any silly social rule by doing so. 

“I don't think she wants to talk to you, buddy,” Tom said. He leant on the bar behind the man. Seven stood at the other side, slightly to the left of the woman. She was small, her hair a shade or two darker than Seven's. 

“What's it got to do with you?” the man said. He was large but unmuscled, Seven noticed. Easy to overpower. 

“You are making her uncomfortable,” Seven said. She wanted to bring up the dilated pupils as evidence, but decided not to. She turned to the woman. “Would you like him to leave?” 

The woman was still blushing. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and licked her lips. Head down, no eye-contact, she said, “Well. Yes, I would prefer it if I was here alone.” 

“You see?” Tom said. He smiled grimly. “Now I can call on the centre's security, or let you see my friend Seven's right-hook, or you can go.” 

The man put down his drink. From here, Seven could tell his pulse was raised. He looked at both of them, and away. “Goddamn know-it-alls,” he said. “Can't anyone have a bit of fun around here?” 

He pushed his chair back, stepping away. Seven watched as he walked out, making slow progress through the bar. 

“Are you all right?” Tom was saying to the woman. 

A pause. She looked at her hands, and then carefully up, taking in both Tom and Seven. “I'm so embarrassed,” she said. “I never know how to handle myself in these situations.” 

Seven could not understand the embarrassment. It was hard to know what to do in social situations; she imagined it was harder if you were small and untrained in combat. 

“Don't worry about it, you didn't do anything wrong,” Tom said. “I'm just glad we could help.” He was smiling at her, genuine and reassuring. Except Seven didn't think the woman was finding it reassuring. 

“I am Annika Hansen. Please contact me if you have any further trouble,” Seven said. The woman ducked her head again. Seven could see the fineness of her hair, the thin lines of her face. The way the woman's hands moved struck her forcefully: they were hands like her own, that did not know how they were supposed to move, that wanted to wriggle and feel and clench, and did not know the social gestures of other humans. 

The woman nodded again, and then, as Seven was leaving, said, “Sarina. I'm Sarina,” and she smiled, and her smile seemed to warm Seven right through. 

*

Sarina slept badly. She played Debussy, and Poulenc and Ravel, and spent some time singing to herself in front of the window. Outside stretched wide streets, leafy parks, wildflowers growing in pots and along the verges. She could go out there and walk and learn the names of the plants and smell the sun on the grass: no one could stop her. And yet it was hard to believe that this could be true. 

Annika Hansen was giving a lecture at 1430 hours. Sarina had read it twice in the programme, and then looked up anything she could find on Annika Hansen in the database. The woman's history was clearly unusual (Delta quadrant, Voyager, Borg research), and Sarina was tempted to break the security codes and read further. But she didn't; she didn't cross boundaries like that. 

Instead she went to all the morning lectures. Sarina spent some of the year as a research assistant in the Corgal Research Centre, but she was free to attend symposiums that interested her, or take vacations. Sarina could not join Starfleet, as she was genetically enhanced, and mostly she didn't mind. She didn't think the rigorous training and need to follow rules and protocol would be bearable for her. However, as she listened to the Starfleet scientists speak, she was a little jealous of the research opportunities and travel afforded to them. 

“I would like to visit the Delta Quadrant,” she said out loud. A human man was sitting next to her: he looked confused, and then said, “Oh yes?” but Sarina didn't know how to continue the conversation so she fixed her gaze on the holoimages the lecturer was using. 

After Annika Hansen's lecture, Sarina left the lecture theatre, and stood in the foyer outside. There was a table with various drinks at one end of the foyer, and a young Trill woman welcoming people and giving out smiles and name-badges at the other. Sarina watched as Annika went to the table. She took a drink, held it, and then assessed the humans around her. Sarina could see as her eyes followed people, and Sarina wondered what she deduced about them. 

Sarina had made notes on Seven's lecture on her padd. She stood by Seven and read the prompt she had written for herself out loud, “You made an excellent point about exploration within inter-planetary nebulae. We do place too much value on manned exploration when we could spend more time improving the probe technology.” 

“Thank you.” Annika paused, but Sarina was looking at her padd, and found it was too hard to look up just then, so she didn't see Annika's face. “Is robotics your field?” 

“Oh.” Sarina nibbled her lip. “I don't have a field. But I was really interested in the new developments made by Dubosarsky-Hagaar on long rage robotic technology. I think the current research practices are sloppy.”

“Yes.” Annika sighed faintly, and Sarina found she was able to look at her. The same flawless face, with its own Borg robotics. “I hope that there will be some changes, but I fear the field itself is … sloppy.” 

Sarina laughed. “All of the research on nebulae? Or robotics? Yes. Both of them lack structure, I agree.” 

“Yes. It is unfortunate.” 

Sarina looked at the second prompt she had written on her padd, and then she said, “I know you told me your name is Annika, but your friend called you Seven.”

“Yes.” 

Annika didn't say anything else, and Sarina worried she'd offended her. “My friends don't have a nickname for me.” 

“Seven is not a nickname. It was my designation.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Annika seemed to consider this. “I do not know. I think I am more Seven than Annika, but my remaining family like to call me Annika.” 

“You don't… You don't have to listen to them, you know,” Sarina said. “Sometimes it's better not to.” 

“I have not had much experience of family in the traditional sense: the human concept of a unit of two or three adults and several children, frequently all genetically related.” 

“Neither have I. I grew up in an institution. Well, it was a research facility. It was to keep me safe. Well. It was an institution. There were locks.” Sarina felt like her tongue was too big for her mouth. 

“I grew up in a Borg cube.” 

“I know.” Sarina put her hand to her mouth. “I mean...” 

“It is not a secret,” Annika said. She looked at Sarina, her eyes meeting Sarina's for the first time. It was a lot to take: those large blue eyes, holding hers impassively. Sarina felt her stomach twist, but she held Annika's gaze. “Would you like to sit down? Or a drink?” 

“I'd like...” Sarina swallowed. The noises of the foyer: voices, laughter, an announcement about he next lecture. Someone hovering nearby. “To go somewhere quieter. Just… Somewhere quieter.” 

“That sounds sensible,” Annika said. She led Sarina from the crowded foyer, out onto the hotel's patio. It had just rained and the air smelt green and fresh. For a moment, Sarina was dazzled by the smells, by the honeysuckle ( _Lonicera etrusca_ ) in pots along the walls, the clematis ( _Clematis armadii_ ), and the sweet chirping of the America robin ( _Turdus migratorius_ ).

They both sat down on small, wrought-iron chairs. The chairs were intensely uncomfortable: Sarina could feel every ridge through her whole body. 

“Do you see your family?” Annika asked. 

Sarina shook her head. “Not any more. I went to see them once, after I left the institution. But they. They put me in there and they didn't believe they had done anything wrong.” 

Annika was silent for some time, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable, because Sarina did not think she had offended her. There were three more prompts on her padd, but they didn't seem appropriate for the situation, so Sarina turned off the screen. 

Then Annika said, “My parents researched the Borg. They were passionate researchers.” She paused. “I have been very angry. Their arrogance and lack of precaution caused me to be assimilated by the Borg. 

“Do you miss them?” Sarina asked. 

“Which?” 

“Oh… Your parents. Not the Borg. Well. Maybe you miss the Borg too, but I wanted to ask about your parents.” 

“I do not miss them,” Annika said. “But I miss the idea of them. And I miss being part of a unit.” 

Sarina thought about Jack; Jack and Patrick and Lauren. “Me too,” she said. “Even if you don't always like your unit, it's better to be part of one than be unattached.” 

* 

Seven stood by the window in Sarina's hotel room. Sarina was playing some Schubert songs. It had begun to rain again on Mars, and Sarina had suggested they go to her room. She had mentioned to Seven that she and the people she had lived with in the institution had sung together, and then she had begun to talk about music she liked. Seven remembered singing with the doctor, and now they were sitting in Sarina's room while the computer played them recordings of Schubert. The sound was not as clear as it would have been in a holodeck. 

The rain streaked the windows: the sky was grey, shot through with faint sunlight. It was strange to think that Mars had once not been inhabitable by humans when it seemed so familiar; when the rain here was just like the rain in her dreams. 

The song came to an end; she heard traffic in the streets below: bicycles and people walking.

“You should call me Seven.” She had not told anyone to call her Seven since she had left Voyager, but it seemed wrong for Sarina to call her Annika, when Annika was not really her name. Or not the correct designation for the person who sat here, listening. 

“You should call me Sarina,” Sarina said, and she smiled, and after a moment Seven smiled too. 

The music changed: Sarina was playing _Don't Get Around Much Anymore_ and Seven remembered the doctor encouraging her to sing this. She hadn't sung anything for a long time. Occasionally she cooked in the kitchen in Uppsala, and Achim would roll the dough with her and sing a child's song he had learnt in school and Seven would join in. 

Now she watched Sarina's mouth following the words, and then Sarina began to sing, very softly. Her eyes met Seven's and then flicked away. That was fine; they didn't have to make eye-contact: most species and cultures did not emphasise it the way many humans did. 

Sarina's voice grew a little stronger and she began to respond to the singer more, developing themes and ideas with her own new melody. Her voice was in a dialogue with the centuries old recording. Seven had never tried to do this, though she'd heard many recordings of singers doing just that. She always wanted to follow the tune: to find a perfect harmony, not to experiment with new sounds. But she was surprised by how much she enjoyed listening to Sarina's improvisations. 

The words to the song drifted up in Seven's mind, locked in with memories of the smell of Voyager's holodeck and the feeling of regenerating in deep space. She began to sing, too, harmonizing with the singer on the recording. Her voice felt uncertain, out-of-practice, but her singing seemed to give Sarina confidence: she improvised around the melody, and her voice was clear, and her soprano melding with Seven's. 

For a moment, all Seven was aware of was the imperfections in their singing: sometimes the improvisations Sarina sang did not seem to fit with the song, and Seven felt her own voice was rough with lack of use. But then the tune seemed to lift around her, and she was aware only of the song, and of the familiar warmth of singing with someone else. She harmonized with the singer on the track, and then Sarina sang another improvisation. Seven found herself responding to Sarina's improvisation: she felt almost giddy with liberties she took with the notes, minor though they were. She felt her phrasing morph into something more flexible and conversational. 

She felt a warmth rush through her at the sound, at carrying the notes of the song further between them. Then she lost concentration, her voice went off-key for a moment, and she felt flustered. She returned to singing with the recording, and listening to Sarina. 

“You have a lovely voice,” Sarina said once the song ended. She was flushed and smiling. Seven felt warm again, she wanted to touch her arm, her face. She wanted to put her arms around Sarina and feel her heart beat against her own; she wanted to kiss Sarina's fine cheekbones, the lobe of her ear. 

It seemed best to be honest about it. Especially since Sarina had already said that she struggled to read social cues. 

“I believe I am romantically attracted to you,” Seven said. “If this makes you uncomfortable I can leave; or perhaps you would like to continue this conversation in a public setting. I realise this may be unexpected.”

Sarina was quiet for a long time, and Seven thought perhaps she would not be able answer at all. Then Sarina looked up at her, eyes on Seven's eyebrow, following the curve of Seven's jaw. “No,” Sarina said. “It doesn't make me uncomfortable at all.” 

Sarina was quiet for a time, and they hadn't played another song, so the rain was loud in the room, and distantly Seven could hear the rumble of thunder. She wished she had seen the lightening. “I felt the same way,” Sarina said. “Almost as soon as I saw you. But I wasn't sure...” 

“It is hard,” Seven agreed. “To be sure.” 

Sarina went to the window. “Sometimes I still can't believe I'm allowed to go out on my own. That I'm … free.” 

Seven stood behind her. She could feel Sarina's warmth through her clothes. “It is very strange for me, too.” 

Sarina touched Seven's hand, very softly, with the back of her own. “It might take me a long time. If. If we were going to have a relationship, it might take me a long time to work everything out. It's. It's all strange for me.” 

“Yes. For me, as well,” Seven said. “We have time. We can discuss the parameters of our current relationship and come to an arrangement with which we are both comfortable.” 

She pressed her hand back against Sarina's, feeling the knuckles rest between her own. “Perhaps you would like to sing with me again. I am out of practice.” 

“Yes,” Sarina said. She was smiling. But they stood in silence for a long time first, watching for the flashes of lightening, and the moments when the grey streets were suddenly charged with colour.


End file.
